


We Go Out Together

by soviet_Crab



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Injury Related Trauma, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, There are So Many Tags I Could Add But Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26317144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soviet_Crab/pseuds/soviet_Crab
Summary: The Captain had lied to them. He had told them that they were just reserves. They were not. The Worcestershires would be the first group over the top, nothing but cannon fodder. They were going to die. Cooke's heart pounded in his chest. He would never see Rossi again.
Relationships: Private Cooke/Private Rossi (1917)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	We Go Out Together

**Author's Note:**

> This idea started as a simple oneshot and now it's turned into this enormous fic. Oops.

The shell had landed only a meter from Rossi. It was a miracle he survived at all. He had felt everything as the shrapnel lodged itself in his right cheek, grinding against his bone. Then he hit the ground, helmet slipping off as his head slammed against the duck board. The skin on his right hand had been lightly singed. The metal in his cheek glinted in the sun in his vision. It stuck out a good four centimeters from his skin.

He slowly pushed himself up with his left hand. The explosion had temporarily deafened him. He could see men rushing past but their footfalls were silent. The quiet was almost welcome after so long at war. His legs shook from shock and he collapsed back into the mud. Arms wrapped around his chest and he was dragged into a dug-out.

Someone was shouting at him now. He could hear the ups and downs of speech but could not distinguish the words. He was shifted so he was leaning against the wall, the man who had been speaking moved to sit in front of him. Cooke. His love. He was unharmed. He was safe. Rossi tried to smile, the shrapnel cut deeper into his skin.

Cooke looks terrified. His eyes drift from Rossi’s face to his hand, checking him over to see if there is anything he missed. He speaks again, and again, Rossi cannot understand him. He felt the vibrations of shells hitting their mark.

Cooke is still speaking and Rossi is able to glean only two words, ‘Please,' and, 'Jamie.'

He gestures to his ears, “I can’t hear.” The sound of his voice in his skull was deafening compared to the silence of the world around him. Cooke goes still, fear crossing his face as he shifts closer. Careful to avoid the metal in his face, he pulls Rossi into his arms. Rossi adjusts so his left cheek is pressed against the other’s chest. A hand finds its way to his hair and softly toys with it.

The attack continues for hours. Through it all, Rossi lay quietly in Cooke’s lap. For a while he was sure Cooke was crying. His breathing was erratic. Rossi did not know how to help, he simply wrapped his right arm slowly around the other. This seemed to calm him even if only a little.

Help would not come until the shelling had stopped, and even then Rossi is not a priority. As night fell, his hearing began to return. He wished he had stayed deaf. Shells exploded all around them. Light from the blasts providing still images of the horrors outside. Rossi took his watch from its pocket, holding close to his face, waiting for another flash. A shell lands almost directly outside their dug-out and Cooke whimpered, hugging him tighter. It is almost midnight.

When the world finally went quiet, it was nearly two in the morning. They waited, holding their breath, for more shells. But none came. It was over. Cooke relaxed, though he still held Rossi close. Eventually they began to see the stretcher bearers and nurses running past. Rossi watched them with pleading eyes.

The shock had long since worn off and the shrapnel burned in his flesh. He held it together for Cooke, not wanting his darling to worry. He knew how much this war had affected him. Affected everyone.

After another painful two hours, one of the nurses came for Rossi. The shrapnel was tenderly plucked from his skin and a small patch of alcohol drowned cotton was held to his cheek. It burned deep in his flesh but he held back his cries of pain. Cooke still sat beside him, watching intently to see if anything was wrong.

Rossi wished he could take him away from this war. Grab a few rations and run for it. But they were so deep in foreign territory, they would not make it 10 kilometers before dropping dead.

The nurse wrapped bandage over his right cheek and eye, leaving the stinging cotton in place. She tucked the end of the bandage under itself, instructing Rossi not to take it off for the next two days. She spent a few seconds looking at his hand before deciding that it would be fine without medical attention. Only a little burn. The skin still felt hot and angry.

Once the nurse had left, Cooke pulled him in for a kiss. It was quick but Rossi made sure to commit every detail to memory as best he could. He always did, never knowing which one might be his last. Always afraid for his love.

"I thought you were fucking dead Jamie. I thought I'd lost you."

"My sweet, I'm not going anywhere."

Cooke melted and he collapsed against Rossi's chest. His sobs were well hidden among the cries of the dying. Rossi pressed soft kisses into his hair and rubbed circles in his back. He was so tired, his face hurt, his hand hurt. But he would be damned if he did not take care of Cooke right now. The poor boy was in pieces.

He rocked slowly side to side, whispering soft nothings into the other's ear until his breathing leveled out. Even once Cooke calmed down, they stayed in each other's arms for the rest of the night. Rossi almost missed it when his lover spoke, it was so quiet, so unlike him.

"Promise you won't die."

He sounded so weak and his voice broke around the words. Not at all like the loud, obnoxious, rude man that he loved so dearly.

"Charlie, sweetpea, I promise I won't die. But you have to do the same, alright? We go out together or not at all."

Rossi could feel Cooke smile against his chest at the petname.

"I promise."

Rossi pressed another kiss to the top of Cooke's head.

"There's my darling," he grinned.

Cooke fell asleep about an hour from sunrise. Rossi did his best to keep anyone from disturbing the boy. He was able to get Cooke a good four hours of rest before Captain Beaufoy woke him. Cooke pretended to complain about Rossi letting him sleep in but they both knew he was grateful for it.

Over the next week, Rossi was able to take off the bandage on his cheek. Without a mirror, he could not see how bad it was. He felt awful. Cooke promised him that it was not too bad, "Barely even left a mark." He littered Rossi with kisses any chance he got. And although it made the other man feel better at the time, the pit-like feeling in his gut always came back. The pain had been so bad it must have left a nasty, twisting scar on his face. He had seen what shrapnel does to soft flesh.

He knew it was stupid but he was so afraid Cooke would somehow love him less for it. He spent all the time he could with the other. They would spend their nights on forward rotation huddled together in a dug-out. Trying to block out the sounds of the shells with each other’s bodies.

When Rossi had messages to deliver or photos to take, Cooke always left him with a kiss. Somewhere no one could see them. Then Rossi would be on his way. It was rarely very dangerous but Cooke still worried all the same.

When he got back however many hours or days later, they would sneak off into back rotation and spend the rest of the day in each other's arms. Cooke would trace the still healing wound on the other's cheek. That same soft smile on his lips that he saved especially for Rossi. He would tell him how beautiful he looked and how much he loved him. They would share quick kisses and soft touches under the cover of the stars.

Rossi loved Cooke so much. He would split his rations with the other as sometimes he still had something left over from a delivery. Cooke would always tell him he was fine but the hunger in his eyes gave him away everytime. They both showed signs of men who had not eaten properly in years.

Rossi would talk and talk about his grandmother's cooking until Cooke begged him to stop, threatening desertion just so he might have a taste of it.

"Then I'll have to invite you over sometime," Rossi would always say.

Then Cooke would respond with a soft, "That would be lovely."

During one of their days off, Rossi found an abandoned stretch of barbed wire in the grass. He moved back towards Cooke, slipping off the other's helmet. As much as Cooke was worried for Rossi, Rossi was terrified for Cooke. He would do anything to protect him, even if it was just a stupid superstition.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Cooke asked.

Rossi began to twist the wire around the other’s helmet, “Gotta keep you safe darling.”

“You need that more than I do,” Cooke shuffled forward and rested his soft hands on Rossi’s scarred ones.

He stopped for a moment, “I’ve already got plenty of scars love. The war can’t have much more in store for me.” He pulled Cooke close to him and planted a kiss on his hairline. The other flushed pink at the sign of affection.

Rossi finished wrapping the wire around the helmet and handed it back to Cooke, “To help you keep your promise.”

Cooke set the helmet on the dirt beside him, tugging on Rossi so they were both lying down. He pulled his thin blanket out of his kit and threw it over them, curling into the other man. Rossi adjusted so that Cooke’s head was resting on his chest. He wrapped an arm around Cooke, the other hand coming to rest in his hair. He could feel the smile on his love’s face.

“Thank you,” Cooke whispered into Rossi’s chest.

“For what, my sweet?” he toyed with the other’s hair.

“For loving me. And for letting me love you.”

Rossi’s heart soared, “I’ll always love you Charlie. No matter what.”

He had always loved him. Cooke had always been nothing but kind to him, rarely even a snarky remark. The others in their section marveled at this. They would ask Rossi what he had done to make Cooke so docile around him. He told them he had no idea.

But he knew. Gentle touches, soft words, shows of affection, Cooke always wanted these. Sometimes they were all that held him together. When he was yelled at, he would begin to shut down. He would seek Rossi out, looking for affection and Rossi would always give it. He would die before he denied Cooke anything.

The smaller man was fast asleep on his chest now and Rossi was close to sleep himself. He looked up at the sky. The stars were partially obscured by smoke and clouds. His eyelids began to grow heavy and soon, he too was asleep, fingers still tangled in Cooke’s hair.

The next morning, Captain Beaufoy rounded them all up and told them they were moving up to Arras. There was an attack planned and they needed reinforcements. The Worcestershire’s and two other regiments were being sent as support.

Before they loaded up into the lorries, Rossi snuck a glance in the door mirror. He could not even remember the last time he saw himself. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark shadows. His hair was an uneven mess and his cheeks were sunken in the early stages of starvation. On his right cheek bone a gash about five centimeters long ran under his eye. The skin around the wound was red and angry but it did not hurt. He reached up a tentative hand, fingers brushing the newly formed skin.

Arms wrapped around his waist and Cooke spoke softly into his ear, “See? Told you it’s not that bad.”

Rossi’s heart melted. Of course Cooke still loved him. He was just being stupid. Rossi shifted in Cooke’s grasp so he was turned to face him. He quickly checked to see if anyone was looking before placing a kiss on the tip of the other’s nose. Cooke adjusted Rossi’s scarf so it properly covered his neck.

“Thank you darling,” Rossi hummed.

The lorries were slowly loaded and the two found themselves in the front of the last one in the convoy. With them were a couple other men from the Worcestershire’s, Malky and Butler. There were also at least fifteen others from different regiments including one of their friends, Jondalar. Cooke sat, leaning against Rossi as the group chatted. They told stories from home, jokes about the war, anything to lighten the mood.

The camp slowly shrunk away in the distance and No Man’s Land stretched out behind them. Hours passed and the sun was now high in the sky. The talk died down as they realized this might be one of the only chances they would have to take a nap for the next couple of weeks. Cooke took off his helmet, putting it under the running board and tucked himself up against Rossi, leaning his head on his left shoulder. Rossi snuck an arm around behind him, hand coming to rest on his waist. Cooke was soon asleep.

It was sunset now and Cooke was still dozing peacefully on Rossi’s shoulder. Most of the other men in the lorry were asleep as well. Only Rossi and Jondalar were still awake. Jondalar knew Rossi’s secret, he knew how much he loved Cooke. He saw nothing wrong with it and quickly became their friend.

The lorry rumbled slowly through the mud around craters and barbed wire. Cooke mumbled something in his sleep and shifted, a hand coming to grip at Rossi’s tunic. Rossi reached up to softly play with the other’s hair. The first few stars began to shine.

Soon Rossi was the only one left awake. The sun was long gone by now and they were still not even half way across No Man’s Land. The convoy was struggling to find a clear path that could support the lorries without them sinking into the muck and grime.

The lorry shuddered to a stop. There was shouting up ahead which quickly became the loud crack of rifles. Cooke jolted awake at the sound, clutching at Rossi’s left arm for safety. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of Cooke’s head in an attempt to sooth him. The others around them slowly woke, looking for the source of the sound.

When Cooke was fully awake he pushed away from Rossi. He could not let the others see that he needed someone, that he was weak. He put on the image of a hardened soldier to try to show that he was not afraid. That he could take care of himself.

It had taken Rossi a while to get used to this. He did not understand the first couple of times. When he asked Cooke about it the other man had denied it out right, claiming that he had no idea what he was talking about. Rossi eventually learned it was just something Cooke did to cope with the war. Whenever his facade broke was when Rossi needed to worry. But he still worried anyway.

One of the others at the very back of the lorry poked his head out to see what the shooting was.

“Well Malky, what do you see?” Jondalar asked.

“Hun. Two or three. Must ‘ave gotten left behind in the retreat.”

“Best keep our rifles handy just in case,” Cooke said as he put on his helmet.

“Maybe we should just dump you out there and leave you to deal with them Cooke," Butler laughed.

Cooke was seething, "And maybe I should just blow that fuckin' mustache off your stupid face."

Rossi chuckled to himself. Cooke had a flashpoint temper that always got him in trouble. He would say things without thinking that would either get him yelled at by an officer or laughed at by the rest of their section. This time it was the latter. It only made Cooke more furious but at least it lightened the mood.

The others laughed and the gunfire slowly stopped. It was still dark but everyone was so on edge it was unlikely they would get back to sleep. Cooke still sat away from Rossi, holding his rifle to his chest. It was dark in the back of the lorry and Rossi was certain that nobody could see as he reached a hand out to rest on Cooke's thigh. The other man began to slowly relax at his touch.

When the lorry tried to start back up the wheels spin uselessly in the mud. It must have sunk while they were stopped. The driver yelled through the canvas for them to get out. Slowly the men hopped down off the lorry, Rossi was last after Cooke.

The mud sucked halfway up their calves. Cooke looked down in disgust, whining about muck in his boots. Jondalar hit him over the back of the head and told him to help. After that Cooke stayed close to Rossi's side.

They tried to push the lorry but the back wheels were buried in over a foot of mud. Cooke's boots slipped as he pushed and he fell face first into the mud with a small squeak.

The men howled with laughter at his misfortune. Rossi bent to help him up. Cooke's face was caked in grime and as he tried to push himself up his arms sank elbow deep in mud. The others only laughed harder as Rossi wiped the mud from his eyes and face. Cooke looked to be on the edge of tears.

The driver was yelling, telling them to put boards under the wheels. Rossi pulled Cooke to the side, dumping the rest of his canteen over the other's head. He tried to scrub off as much of the mud as he could but it stuck to his skin and hair.

"Oh sweetheart, you're a mess," Rossi whispered. He ran a thumb over Cooke's cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

"I'm okay. I'm alright. Just. Just give me a minute," Cooke sniffed.

They stood for a time in the dark, Rossi cupping the other's face in his hands. Cooke took deep, rattling breaths until he was calm.

For all his anger, Cooke was terrified almost all the time. He hid it well but Rossi saw straight through him. He hated seeing his love scared but there was not always something he could do. Right now he would give his right hand to wrap his arms around Cooke and kiss him until the sun came up.

Behind them, the others had freed the lorry. They shouted at Cooke and Rossi to get back in before it sank again. It was hard to walk in the mud. Cooke's fingers twisted in the fabric of the other's coat sleeve. The others in the lorry made room for them at the front. Rossi stepped in first, helping Cooke up after him.

The rest of the night was spent in tense silence. With every bump of the lorry Cooke moved a little closer to Rossi. By the time the sun was up he was flush against the other's side. Rossi could tell the poor boy was exhausted. He wished he could make it better. He would kiss him and pet his hair and hold his hands until he was calm. But it was light out, people would see.

Instead Rossi dug into one of his pouches and produced a tin of biscuit. He had gotten it as provisions for one of his missions but never ate it, knowing Cooke would enjoy it more. He was right, the other’s face lit up at the sight of the tin and he snatched it. Ripping it open to get at the biscuit inside.

Jondalar saw the exchange and spoke up, “So that’s why he never bothers you. You’ve trained him with sweets.”

The others looked at Cooke and laughed, finally breaking the tension in the lorry. Cooke glared at them all as he hunched over the tin to eat his biscuit. This only made them laugh harder. He did give off the energy of a feral animal but only when he was around people. On his own he was rather gentel, Rossi thought.

“I didn’t know you had a dog Rossi!” Butler yelled.

Rossi could not help laughing. Cooke pouted and Rossi laughed harder. He would have to make this up to him later. He draped an arm around Cooke, trying to tell him he loved him without the others seeing.

Soon there was hard earth under the lorry wheels. They were past No Man’s Land. The convoy followed a sort of road deeper into the french countryside. The ride was a lot smoother and not as lurching as before. Rossi was able to get some rest, leaning back against the side of the lorry.

They drove on, men laughing and telling stories. Cooke joined in once he finished his biscuit. Rossi stayed quiet, preferring to sleep. Farmland spread out behind the lorry, dead cows littered the fields. Over the sound of the convoy, they hear the roar of aeroplanes. Malky stuck his head out again.

“Two of ours, but I see a lot of smoke coming from an old house up ahead.”

“A house?” Cooke asked.

“Yeah, looks like yours.” Malky answered.

One of the others at the back of the lorry poked his head out to take a look, “Ha, it really does.”

Cooke was trying to stand up now, “Let me see.”

Rossi grabbed him by the strap of his kit and yanked him down. He landed heavily on the running board, “If you go back there, they’re gonna toss you out the lorry and I’m gonna let it happen.”

Cooke glared at him and Rossi ruffled his hair.

The convoy pulled to a stop and Cooke leaned a bit too heavily into Rossi for it to just be gravity. A Captain, Smith maybe, came to the back of the lorry, “There’s a tree in the road, it’ll be awhile before we move it so now’s your chance to stretch your legs.”

The men in the lorry slowly filtered out, happy at the chance to be standing on solid ground again. Cooke was out to see the house before Rossi could tell him to wait. When he dropped out onto the dirt his face fell.

"Why the fuck d'you think I would live there?!"

When Rossi got out and stood beside Cooke, he could see a half collapsed farmhouse. The corpse of a dog lay in the grass in front of the building. Smoke billowed from something behind it, thick and dark. Something about the place felt wrong. He could almost feel the death that hung in a cloud over the house. Rossi stepped a little closer to Cooke, just in case.

“‘Cos it looks like it’s full of your little rat family,” Butler chuckled.

At that, Cooke burst out laughing. The others looked almost surprised. Rossi knew Cooke had bad history with his family but he never learned the specifics and he doubted he ever would. Every time he brought up the topic the other just shut down. Rossi would give him his space for an hour or so and then come back and bury him in kisses, giving him some of his food if he had any.

They did what they needed, Cooke scratching the rest of the dried mud from his face and hair. When they loaded back into the lorry, one of the other men pushed Cooke out of his spot in the back. He went to sit by the opening instead and, of course, Rossi joined him.

Butler started a story about something one of his old mates did to Captain Beaufoy. Apparently whatever he had done had gotten the man transferred to another platoon. Cooke loved anything that had to do with putting their insufferable Captain in his place. He hated the man with a passion Rossi could never hope to understand. It had taken Rossi physically restraining him to keep Cooke from taking a swing at the man for cutting his rations one night.

They could still hear one of the officers shouting at the men moving the tree. A couple of the others still stood outside the lorry, smoking, when the same Captain appeared. Behind him was what looked like a walking corpse, his eyes empty, blood covering his hands and tunic. He was desperately clutching his rifle to his chest.

The Captain looked to the man, “Hop on.”

Rossi shuffled to the side to try to make room but the others stayed still.

“Make some space there,” the Captain instructed, “Come on, in you get!”

The others groaned and shuffled over to try to make room. Malky helped the man up and he took a seat between Cooke and Rossi. The Captain wandered off back to his own lorry. The engine whirred beneath their feet and slowly they began to pull away from the house. The stranger chanced a look at the building but seemed to immediately regret it, dropping his eyes to the floor.

“Alright. Here we go again boys,” Cooke announced.

Rossi looked towards the man sitting beside him, “Welcome aboard the night bus to fuck knows where.”

The stranger looked shell shocked as he stared longingly at his rifle. Cooke looked out the back of the lorry, watching as the house began to shrink into the distance.

“Is that a dead dog?” he asked.

Nobody answered. Cooke eventually turned back to the rest of the men in the lorry. He leaned back against the wood and fabric of the siding and Rossi could almost feel how tired he was. They were all tired. He doubted that wherever they were going that they would get a chance to rest before being thrown into work. Rossi especially, as a Royal Engineer he was sure there would be hundreds of wires that needed doing.

Butler snapped him out of his thoughts, “You got a fag?”

“Yeah,” he digs for the small pack of cigarettes in his haversack, taking out two and handing one to Butler, “There you go.” He lights his own cigarette.

Butler lit his and took a puff before tucking it behind his ear. He looked out at the road behind them. A dark atmosphere fell over the men with the addition of the stranger.

Cooke breaks the silence, “Butler, oy. Carry on with that story.”

“Oh yeah, right. So when we get off the train, Beaufoy comes up to us and he’s having a right go, ‘Lance Corporal! Whatever one does, one never lets standards slip!’ Then Scott comes out the latrine, he wipes his hand on the back of Beaufoy’s jacket! Shit all down his back!”

Everyone laughs except Cooke and the stranger. Rossi looks at Cooke confused, the man loved stories about abusing their Captain. The stranger he could understand, the man was already half dead and had no idea who Beaufoy even was.

Finally Cooke asked, “Was that meant to be Captain Beaufoy?

The stranger tucked his bloody tunic tighter around himself, still clutching his rifle like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Rossi knew he must have lost someone, he recognized the telltale signs. The poor man looked like he was on the edge of breaking.

“Oh, piss off you. You can’t do any better,” Butler pointed his cigarette at Cooke before taking another drag.

Cooke took it as a challenge. “Men! Your rifle stocks are an embarrassment to the entire expeditionary force!”

Rossi did not think that was too bad, but both men were definitely lacking something. He was beginning to think it might be brains.

Jondalar spoke then, he looked like he was very much over the Beaufoy impression game, “You’re both bloody awful.”

“You don’t know, you barely even speak the bloody language!” Cooke yelled.

“He’s got a better grasp of it than you Cooke,” Malky added.

By this point Cooke was fuming, “Go on then Jondalar, give it a go, let’s see it.”

Rossi egged him on, “Let’s hear it then Jonny!”

Jondalar chuckled and adjusted his coat. He sat up a little straighter and looked right at Rossi, “Rossi!” that sent shivers down Rossi’s spine, “Never in my two hundred years as a soldier have I ever seen such a sorry excuse for a latrine pit!”

It was a spot on impression and Rossi was dying with laughter. He looked over to see Cooke pouting.

“Shite! That is total shit!” Cooke called.

The others shouted at him, calling him names. One of the men in the back threw a spare canteen at him. It flew past his cheek and out the back of the lorry.

“Oy! You could’ve taken my teeth out with that!” Cooke shouted.

Rossi laughed. “You could do with a new set.”

He saw Cooke make a face that told him he was beginning to push a bit too far. He promised himself to make it up to him later.

The men eventually settled down and began chatting quietly among themselves. The lorry drove slowly over the muddy road. Rossi watched the stranger sitting next to him. He was hugging the rifle close to his body, staring at nothing. Occasionally he would look at his hands and Rossi would watch as he broke just a little more. Then it was back to the empty expression he had before. He knew there was no saving this man.

Things began to quiet down and then the lorry lurched, bouncing them in their seats.

“Oh no,” Rossi muttered.

The lorry revs uselessly and the wheel spins deeper into the muck.

“Asshole needs driving lessons.” Cooke said. A few men call their agreement.

The stranger jumps out. “He should reverse,” he says.

Cooke halfheartedly agrees and does nothing. The stranger leaves to talk to the driver.

“You not gonna help him? The man’s clearly been through some shit.” Malky asks.

“I’m not gonna fall in the mud again is what I’m gonna do,” Cooke says, crossing his arms over his chest.

The wheel spins in the mud and Rossi can feel the truck sink deeper. The stranger comes back now, shouting at them to get out. His eyes are wide with fear and his movements are shaky. He is still holding the rifle.

Slowly they all filter out. He shouts at them again to hurry up. A few move to help push the lorry, Rossi among them. Cooke is standing far away looking out at the horizon.

“One. Two. Three!” They push. The wheel sent mud into their faces and the lorry sank ever deeper.

Cooke suggests putting wood under the wheels and the man screams at him that he has no time.

“Please, I have to go now. Please.” The desperation is clear in his voice. Everyone falls in to help, including Cooke.

“One. Two. Three!”

Rossi can feel his muscles burning as he pushes. The wheels spins, skips, and finally breaks free of the mud. The lorry lurches forward and Cooke loses his balance. Rossi catches him before he can fall, holding him against his chest.

“Careful,” he whispers.

They stand there just a moment too long, Cooke gripping at Rossi’s scarf, both of them needing a little more. Cooke desperate for affection. Rossi desperate for Cooke.

The stranger tells them all to get back in. The two break apart and Cooke slips back into his annoying self, shouting at the driver to keep it on the road. The driver tells him to piss off and they load back into the lorry. Cooke made sure to get a seat next to Rossi this time.

After a short silence, Jondalar asked the stranger where he was going.

“I have to get to the 2nd Devons, just past Ecoust.”

“Why?”

“They’re attacking at dawn. I have orders to stop them.”

“How come?” Malky asked. Other chatter was starting to die down now. Everyone wanted to listen.

“They’re walking into a trap.”

Cooke quietly asked, “How many?”

“1600.”

Everyone was silent. This one man was supposed to save 1600 lives. And with almost no time to do it too. No wonder he had been so scared when the lorry had gotten stuck.

“Why did they send you on your own?” Butler said.

“They didn’t. There were two of us.”

So that is what had happened. The rifle must have belonged to the other man. The rest of the ride was relatively quiet. Butler offered the man his whiskey and he took it gratefully. The weight of the man’s mission was heavy on them all. The lorry slowed to a stop and Rossi could see panic rise on the stranger’s face.

The driver called back to them through the canvas, “Bridge is out!”

Cooke muttered something and the stranger stood.

“Looks like I’ll be getting out here. Good luck.”

“Keep some of that luck for yourself mate. Think you’ll be needing it.” Rossi said.

There was a chorus of ‘Good luck’ as the stranger hopped off the lorry.

“Don’t balls it up!” Cooke called after he got off.

The Captain told them it would be another six miles because of the bridge. They slowly began to pull away. An extra six miles. It would be nearly dark by the time they got to Arras. Cooke was just about to dive into another one of his stories when the sharp crack of a rifle sounded. All went silent, looking for the stranger. Rossi spotted him, leaping across the remains of the bridge. He began climbing the lattice work as two more shots sang.

Rossi could barely see him now. The man dropped down into the side of the canal and out of view of the convoy. The group waited silently, counting the shots. One, two, three, four, five more, a pause. Two more shots. Then silence. That must be it then. The Hun got him, poor man is dead. And with him, 1600 others.

No one speaks for the rest of the ride. The ruins of Arras rise up against the dying light of the sun. They could make out hundreds of men within the city as they drove through it. They pass what seems like most of the city before finally pulling to a stop. Captain Beaufoy instructs them to get out and walk to the river nearby. They were to wash themselves and their uniforms before a final inspection.

The men perked up at the idea of a wash. The last time Rossi had been able to clean himself was over a month ago and he was desperate to get out of his boots. The river was wide and deep and crystal clear. He could feel how cold it was just by looking at it. Even so it was better than winter when they had to break through ice just to get a drink.

Rossi and Cooke found a rather secluded spot, farther away from the others, and began to undress. It was difficult with so many straps and layers. He did not need to but Cooke helped Rossi with his buttons anyway. The gesture was kind and Rossi thanked him with a kiss to his cheek.

Once everything was off they stepped slowly into the icy water. It burned cold on their skin. They had not been given any soap but they were used to that. Cooke tried desperately to get the rest of the mud from his hair, movements frantic with cold. He would not put his head underwater which was making it quite a challenge.

Rossi gently took his wrists, “Here, let me help,” he ran his fingers through Cooke’s hair, “Dunk your head for me sweetheart.”

Cooke did as he was asked. When he came back up he began shivering violently, making Rossi’s heart ache. Rossi slowly massaged his scalp, trying to get out all the dirt. Cooke relaxed into the touch, even the shivering had slowed. When Rossi was certain he had gotten all the dirt, he asked Cooke to dunk again. His skin was pink from the stinging cold.

One thing Rossi never expected was that some dirt just never came off. It had been worked so deep into his skin that it had become permanent. He had lines of dirt ground into the creases of his skin that he had had since almost the beginning of the war. It just never washed out. A testament to what he had been through. Most of the soldiers and even the NCO’s that did not regularly have access to soap had layers of grime etched into their flesh forever.

Once they were satisfied that they were as clean as they could get, they both climbed out and back onto the bank. It was even colder out of the water, the wind blowing straight to their bones. Cooke was shaking so badly that Rossi had to help him get his things back on. They washed their uniforms in the water as best they could and set them to dry. While they were waiting, Beaufoy came by to inspect them. He looked over Cooke first, speaking with the same grating lisp.

“No lice this time at least. But there’s still muck in your hair!” he yanked at Cooke’s hair making him twitch with pain. Rossi’s blood boiled.

Cooke muttered a pitiful, “Sorry Sir.”

“Wash it again before you get your rations,” Beaufoy instructed, “And make sure it’s actually clean this time.”

“Yes Sir.”

Beaufoy then moved to Rossi. He picked through his hair and upon finding nothing, moved to look at the new scar on his face. He regarded it with disgust. If it were anybody else, it would bring Rossi down terribly. But this was Beaufoy, the man who whined when soldiers got leave simply because he would have less people to do his work for him.

“You’re clean Rossi. The rest of the Signals are expecting you in the tunnels. You are to report to Sergeant Killian to find out your assignment. Put on your uniform and go immediately.”

“Yes Sir.”

The Captain stalked away, mumbling something about how useless Cooke was, not being able to keep clean for even a week.

Rossi turned to find Cooke barely keeping it together. He hated seeing him like this. He only ever reacted this way to Beaufoy. Other officers just made him angry but Beaufoy seemed to know just where to hit him, even if he was not aware of it.

Double checking Beaufoy was long gone, Rossi cupped the other’s face with his hands. Cooke’s hands came up to cover his own and Rossi kissed him deeply. When the broke apart, he spoke softly, “Charlie, my sweet, you are so fucking far from usless. Alright? You are the most wonderful man I have ever had the luck of knowing.”

“You really mean that?” Cooke sniffed.

“Of course I do darling. You're _everything_ to me. _Never_ forget that.”

Cooke nodded, leaning forward to rest his head against Rossi’s chest. Rossi carded his fingers through the other’s hair, pressing soft kisses to his head.

“Do you want me to help you with your hair again?” he asked.

“No it’s, it’s fine. I’ve got it. Beaufoy said you had to go and I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Sweetheart, if you want help then I can help you. You’re more to me than some Sergeant.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m sure Beaufoy is just fucking with me anyway,” Cooke bit back tears. Rossi could not see him cry.

Rossi bent to give him another kiss and Cooke silently begged it could last. He loved every little touch, needed them. Cooke always tried his best to return the affection but he was so scared it was not enough. That Rossi would eventually grow tired of him and toss him aside, no longer needed, no longer wanted.

Cooke ached for Rossi every night that they were apart. He did not know how he was able to survive for so long before knowing him. Every kind word, every soft kiss in the dark, they were all that kept him going. During their days apart, all Cooke had was the memory. The phantom feeling of warm hands on his skin, the quiet whispers of the past. Cooke held his time with Rossi close to his heart, determined not to forget.

Rossi wiped a stray tear from Cooke’s cheek, “If I can’t see you before the battle, know that I love you, no matter what.”

“And you remember your promise yeah? We go out together or not at all,” Cooke whispered back, afraid his voice would give away his fear.

“Of course sweetpea.”

Cooke could feel the blush forming on his cheeks. Rossi pulled on his uniform, it was still a bit damp but it would dry with time. Most of the newer mud had been scrubbed off in the river but it still looked as dirty as ever.

Before Cooke could get back in the river to wash his hair, Rossi gently lifted his chin, pressing their lips together.

“Stay safe for me Charlie,” Rossi whispered against his skin.

“I will, I promise.”

And then Rossi was gone. He walked quickly towards the city center, Cooke watched him go with sad eyes. It was always so much colder without him.

Cooke clawed at his scalp, trying to get the last bits of dirt out. By the time he was done, it was completely dark. He tugged on his still damp uniform and began making his way to where he thought the mess tents might be.

Everywhere he looked, he saw the blue and white patch of the Royal Engineers. All of them were covered head to toe in dirt and dust. They were armed with shovels and various types of tools. Cooke weaved between them, trying to push away his fear.

The mess tent turned out to be underground. Most of the operations were in massive subways deep under the city. It was to keep the soldiers safe but Cooke had never felt more trapped. Weak electrical lights lit the halls and rooms. Time lost its meaning underground and soon it was almost midnight. Cooke was so tired but the Sergeant called him and the rest of his company for briefing.

The Captain had lied to them. He had told them that they were just reserves. They were not. The Worcestershires would be the first group over the top, nothing but cannon fodder. They were going to die. His heart pounded in his chest. He would never see Rossi again.

Cooke did not sleep that night. He was too busy trying not to cry to even realize how exhausted he was. The offensive could take months. If he was injured, how would anybody be able to get to him? He was going to bleed alone on the battlefield in the middle of nowhere. What a horrible fate he had.

The attack was planned for April 9 but before that, he had to help set up artillery and move supply crates. There was so much to do he doubted he would be able to sneak away. Captain Beaufoy was on him the entire time, nagging about how he needed to get a better work ethic. How his slacking was bringing the whole operation to a standstill.

Some of the others from his section were there as well. Just Malky and Butler but the familiar faces were nice. During their short breaks, they would have a smoke and chat. They were going up on the ninth as well. Malky would talk about his family, Butler would tell how much he missed his dog. Cooke had nobody waiting for him at home, only Rossi, working somewhere deep in the tunnels.

It was cold at night. Not that he ever had time to sleep. There was always work to be done. He would move crates of artillery ammunition from underground up to the guns on the front. Every time he stopped to rest, one of the NCO’s would get on him for not working. He had not slept in days and it was wearing on him.

On the evening of the eighth, he got his first proper break. Sergeant Lansch had come to tell him to get his rations. Cooke stumbled on exhausted feet up the line to the mess tent. The man there had handed him a small, ragged tin with dark liquid in it and a stale slice of bread.

He had taken his rations and gone above ground to eat. The stars in the sky told him he had just missed the sun but he did not mind. There was still enough light left for him to get around. He found a spot by the half collapsed wall of one of the ruined buildings of Arras and sat down to eat.

Cooke scanned the sea of exhausted soldiers for Rossi’s face. He needed to talk to him before the battle started. He needed to see him one last time. He needed the warm comfort the other always provided.

He played with his stew, not really wanting to eat it. It was cold and mostly mud anyway. He picked at it with his bread, occasionally glancing up to look for Rossi. Cooke was so close to shattering and he desperately needed help.

He was almost done eating and was starting to lose hope. Soon he would have to go back into the tunnels. The offensive was planned for five thirty the next morning and he could already see black clouds rolling in. The rain would turn the battlefield into soup, making progress slow, making him an easy target. He did not want to die. He had to keep his promise.

“Charlie! Found you.” Rossi came to sit beside him. He grinned and Cooke broke.

“Oh Jamie!” he collapsed against the other’s chest, “They fucking lied to me. They said we were just support. We’re the bloody first line! The Hun are gonna tear us down before we even get two steps into No Man’s Land!” He sobbed into Rossi’s uniform. He did not mean to, the tears fell without permission.

They were surrounded by other soldiers. There would be no kisses, no pet names. But that was fine. Just the touch of the other was enough. “I’m so sorry. I, I don’t know what-” Rossi choked. There was nothing he could say, nothing to make this nightmare any better. He wrapped his arms around the other, keeping him close. Here, Cooke felt safe. But only here. The rest of the world was a barren hellscape that he had stumbled into. He never wanted to go to war.

Rossi rubbed slow circles into his back, letting him cry. When Cooke finally calmed down, Rossi let go. They sat close, neither of them spoke. There was so little to say and they were both afraid to say it. To say goodbye. This could be the last time they see the other.

Rossi was the one to break the silence, “We could leave. We could steal some supplies and run for it.”

“Where would we go?” Cooke whispered.

Rossi thought a moment, “I don’t know.”

A hand slipped into Cooke's and he gripped it tight. The light was almost gone. Cooke leaned his head on Rossi's shoulder. Sure he might get odd looks but he did not care anymore. He needed this. He needed Rossi.

Now it was dark. They sat quietly together, never letting go of the other’s hand. Clouds obscured the moon and stars and Cooke could smell the rain already. He had broken his watch a few months ago and his family never sent him a replacement. It could be hours till the attack or minutes, he did not know.

Most of the other men around them were asleep by now. Cooke wanted to sleep too but he was so terrified. It was all he could do not to shake. It was getting hard to breathe, he could not tear his mind away from the battlefield only two hundred meters behind him.

Rossi saw what was happening and twisted so he was facing Cooke. He rested his free hand on the other’s face. The touch had an almost immediate calming effect. Cooke was able to breathe a little better but his heart still pounded in his ears.

Rossi spoke in a hushed voice, “Listen to me my darling. You made a promise remember? You won’t die without me yeah? We go out together or not at all and I don’t plan on leaving just yet.”

Cooke nodded and Rossi tipped his head up to kiss him. It was short and sweet but Cooke loved it all the same. They both settled against the wall, Rossi sitting up with Cooke leaning on his shoulder.

“When we get out of here,” Cooke whispered, “Would you mind if I came to live with you?”

“Of course not sweetheart. My grandmother even has a small cottage at the back of her property I’ve been meaning to fix up,” Rossi wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

Cooke smiled, “Then, do you like dogs? I’ve always wanted one of the little ones.”

“Anything for you darling. But if we get a small one then I want one of the big ones too. Like a sheepdog.”

“That would be lovely.”

Even in the dark of the night, they could still see smoke coming from the German line. Earlier that day there was an aerial strike to take out the last of their artillery. They had used gas to scare the Germans away and kill off the gun crews. Everytime Cooke went above ground to deliver ammunition, he could hear the planes roaring overhead.

“Jamie?” his voice broke around the name.

“Yes sweetpea?” Rossi ran a hand through Cooke’s hair and he melted into the touch.

“Can. Can you leave before I wake up? I just. I don’t think I can say goodbye.” He hated himself for asking the question. Rossi would think him cowardly, because that is what he was. He was terrified.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

Cooke muttered a soft “Thank you,” and let sleep take hold. His dreams were long and dark. He sat in an endless inky black, shell blasts sounding all around him. Something in his mind told him he needed to stay quiet if he wanted to survive. So that is what he did.

Rossi did not sleep. Instead he stayed awake for Cooke. The other would twitch in his sleep and quietly whimper. All Rossi could do was be there. He could not risk waking him up. He doubted Cooke had slept since the ride here and he needed every second he could get. Rossi had not slept either but he was not going over tomorrow.

He had spent the past two days running papers from one officer to another in the tunnels and taking photos of the front line. It was an arduous task but it needed doing. The tunnels were direct lines into No Man’s Land for the soldiers to take. It would save time getting to the fight and would keep the men safe for much longer.

Rossi sat, stroking Cooke’s hair, when two figures approached. It was Malky and Butler. They sat beside Rossi. In the dark, he could still see that Butler’s face was smudged with dirt.

“We was looking for you two,” Butler whispered, taking a seat opposite Cooke and Rossi. Malky went to join him, sitting close but not touching.

“Are you really going up tomorrow?” Rossi asked.

The two shared a look and Butler hung his head, picking at the edge of his tunic.

It was Malky who spoke, his voice was thick with exhaustion, “Yeah. The Brass said they needed extra support getting the riflemen to their posts.”

“What about you?” Butler asked, still not taking his eyes off of his tunic.

“Reserves. I’ll be staying back in the tunnels.” Sleep hung heavily from Rossi’s eyes but he kept them open, if only for the sake of the sleeping soldier leaning on his side

“Lucky bastard,” Malky muttered to himself.

Cooke shifted in his sleep and his grip on Rossi’s arm tightened. Rossi moved to pet his hair. He suspected that the others were like him and Cooke but he would never know for sure. He did know that for all the mean comments and shoving around, they cared about Cooke almost as much as he did. Without him, their little group would fall apart in seconds.

“How’s he doin’?” Butler whispered.

“Bad. Hasn’t slept proper in days.” Rossi continued quietly soothing Cooke until the other was able to relax back against his shoulder.

Beside him, Butler shook his head. “Neither ‘ave we. The Captain’s been on us since we got here.”

An icy wind blew past with the scent of a coming storm. Malky undid his webbing and threw his blanket over himself, rolling over to go to sleep. Butler soon joined him, leaving Rossi to sit awake. The moon shined yellow through the clouds, casting long shadows through the city.

In the dark Rossi could barely see his watch. It was almost four in the morning. Cooke would have to get up soon. He looked to make sure nobody near them was watching before softly planting a kiss to Cooke’s forehead. Then he was gone.

When Cooke awoke to a Sergeant’s boot to his thigh, he was alone. And he was grateful.

“Get up Cooke. Thirty minutes till Zero-Hour.”

Thirty minutes. It was five in the morning. The Sergeant had gone back to the tunnels. Cooke pulled himself up by the wall and started after him. It was still dark and a biting wind swept through his uniform.

The tunnels were a little warmer. Soldiers were everywhere. Some looked excited, others looked like they had died long ago. Cooke was just a shaking mess. The layers of clothing kept the trembling hidden but he still struggled to hold his rifle.

Captain Beaufoy briefed them on their objectives. Cooke was in a unit with Butler and ten or so others he did not know the names of. English artillery would lay fire one hundred meters in front of them as they moved through No Man's Land.

Butler clapped him on the shoulder, his hand was shaking too. "So, it's you and me then. You alright kid?"

"I'm fine," he lied, "Just ready for this bloody war to end."

"Aren't we all," Butler walked off to refill his clips.

Once the men had everything in order, Cooke and his group were sent up to the front to wait. It was still dark and without the light of the moon he could barely see his own hands. His section’s job was to get gunners and riflemen to various stations along the line. Then they were to push on with the rest of Group Arras.

Time was moving too slow and way too fast all at once. Before he knew what had happened, the whistle sounded. Men rushed over the top of the trench and English shells hit just a few paces away.

Cooke and his section jumped over the top of the trench and slunk towards the first artillery post. In between shell blasts, he could hear the Hun firing their rifles at them. It would not stop the attack but it was still very deadly if one hit its mark.

They made it to the artillery post without any injuries and from there they were to head to a small outpost closer to the battle. One of their men split to stay at the post while the rest continued on. Cooke could barely hear himself think with the noise.

They broke away from the artillery post and began to slowly make their way towards the outpost. It was very slow going but so far no injuries. Bullets sang past them but they still continued. Cooke could see the outline of the outpost.

Now there were more bullets, aimed right at the small group. The Hun had spotted them through a break in the covering shells. They started running just as the cover fire stopped. Now they were exposed. Cooke’s heart was in his throat. The bullets became more focused, trained on them.

As Cooke ran, the others fell around him. The rifle shots continued from the enemy line. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Butler fell to the ground, dead. Cooke’s left leg slipped out from under him and he landed in the mud. He rolled over, he needed to get back up.

Cooke pushed himself onto his back. He had to sit up. He braced himself on his arms, a bullet shot past his ear. Looking down made his stomach churn. His puttee was soaked with blood, muscle and bone shrapnel stuck out of his skin half way up his calf. The pain hit him as soon as he saw it and he fell back with a scream.

He had to get out of the line of fire, get somewhere safe. Beside him was a large crater. If he could just make it inside, he would be safe. Cooke rolled back onto his stomach and began to drag himself towards the crater. A bullet grazed his helmet, knocking it off. His head snapped to the side and his neck pulsed with pain. He could barely see through the agony of his leg.

One of Cooke’s hands found the edge of the crater and he pulled himself into it. He fell heavily into the scummy water, landing on his side. The water came up over his nose and mouth. He pushed himself onto his back, coughing up water. The mud at the bottom of the crater sucked at his arms and legs, threatening to pull him down, to drown him.

Part of his mind wished he had stayed above ground. Water covered the wound in his leg, stinging and hot. His ears were submerged and he could not hear the battle. The impact of each shell resonated loudly in his skull. If stretcher bearers were to come looking for him, he would not know, he would not hear them.

Cooke had left his helmet outside of the crater. Rossi was right though, the barbed wire had saved him. He was sure that without it, the bullet would have gone straight through his skull, shredding his mind.

Oh God, his promise. He had to stay alive. But it hurt so fucking much, it made it hard to see, hard to breathe. This had to be some sort of terrible nightmare. He would wake up any minute now, Rossi would kiss him and whisper soft things until he calmed down. They would split rations and Cooke would forget this even happened.

Another round of shelling told him this was real. He was laying in a crater, hurting and alone. Trapped. But he could not die, he had made a promise. His eyes grew heavy, sleep was so close. And with it, the chance of death. He let out a small whimper at the thought. Fuck, what had he done wrong to deserve this? He was just so tired.

Water lapped at his cheeks, his tears mixed with the mud. The sun was beginning to come up now. It tinted the sky pale grey. Heavy clouds covered the sky. It was so cold. Everything in Cooke’s body was screaming at him to sleep. He was so fucking scared. He did not want to die, not yet, not like this. Not without Rossi.

Darkness took him. The last thing he heard were the shells, now much farther away. Before he slipped away, he whispered quietly.

“Please Jamie. Save me.”

***

Cooke woke to a lungful of water. He coughed, trying to breathe. The clouds were now tinted orange and the shelling was almost inaudible. He had no idea how long it had been since he fell asleep. Rain fell hard from the sky and he was not sure but the water level in the crater seemed significantly higher. It rose up, almost covering his eyes now.

He tried to push himself up to breath but fell back with a cry. His mouth filled with water, it tasted like iron. Like blood. He spat it out but the taste lingered. He was still tired but the adrenaline in his system was keeping him awake. If he fell asleep again he might drown.

His leg ached deep in his bone, pain thrumming through his veins. His breathing was erratic and he could not slow it down. It hurt to move. He needed Rossi. He was terrified. Cooke never wanted to go to war.

The rain was freezing and he began to shiver. Every time he moved his leg, fresh pain swept through his body. Cooke’s breathing was short and fast. He felt ill. Every breath ripped at his chest, burning.

Freezing rain pelted against the skin of his face. The water was rising fast, his eyes and mouth were completely covered now. Oh God he was going to drown. Cooke struggled to keep his face above water but he did not have the strength. Everything felt sore, his neck was still aching from the gunshot. He closed his eyes to keep the stinging water out.

Cooke tried to drag himself away from the water but the thick mud held him in place. By dropping into the crater, he had sealed his fate. He would die, one horrible way or another. His father had told him that war was a glorious thing, that he should be excited at his conscription. A part of him wanted to believe him, that it would be easy here, that he would be safe. But he knew it was a lie.

The sky was starting to go dark and the rain had slowed a bit. Cooke still tried to pull himself up, even if it meant going back into enemy fire. He did not want to drown. He propped himself up on his arms, managing to free his right leg from the mud, however his left was still stuck. He was too scared to move it, afraid of the pain it would surely bring. His arms began to shake, then they buckled underneath him. He fell back into the water with a splash. It washed over his nose and he breathed some in. He gripped at his chest, coughing, tasting bile. He was too exhausted to properly retch.

He had to get his head out of the water or else he would surely drown. The rain still fell heavily. His arms felt on the verge of breaking as he pushed himself up once more. He had to get his left leg out of the mud. Cooke tried to move it and screamed with the pain. Agony flashed from his leg to his spine, searing his bones. He sobbed when he saw his leg was still stuck.

His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself up. He tugged at his leg again. This time it broke free, but not without a significant amount of pain. His vision sparkled with white and red and he fell back into the water.

Once more, Cooke braced himself on shaking arms. His hands sank into the sticky mud as he tried to claw back towards the edge of the crater. He pushed with his right leg to try to move faster. His arms were failing him and his body shook with cold and exhaustion. Finally he had dragged himself far enough that his face would be above the water. He let himself fall heavily into the mud. His leg was still submerged, the water coming up to his chest.

Every breath he took burned in his lungs. His leg felt like it was on fire, he could feel each and every tear in his flesh in excruciating detail. The water worsened the pain tenfold with every ripple. Cooke cried for Rossi, begging for him to save him. He had no idea if anyone could hear him.

The shelling seemed to stop, but it might just be too far to hear. Stretcher bearers had to be somewhere nearby. The rest of his section lay dead only a few meters away from his crater. Someone had to see the bodies, they would go looking to see if any were still alive, they would find him. They had to.

The night was much colder than he could have imagined. He shook violently. Cooke did not have the strength to wrap his arms around himself to stave off the cold. Instead he lay still in the scummy water and muck of the crater, slowly losing the feeling in his fingers and toes. He begged for it to end. To either wake up in Rossi’s arms, or to die. Anything but this.

After what felt like hours, the rain finally stopped. Even with his ears out of the water, he could still barely hear the shells. It sounded like thunder, crashing in the distance. His body was screaming that something was horribly wrong. That death was close.

Cooke wept softly, he did not want to die, did not want to break his promise. It all hurt so fucking bad. He just wanted Rossi to be there, to kiss him softly, whispering kind words, holding him close. He pictured what their life could have been. A small cottage, walks in the country, pets to keep them company. It was so domestic but Cooke had never wanted anything more. He wanted Rossi.

The sky began to lighten with the morning sun. He wished the clouds would part, he wanted to see the sky again. He wanted to do so much more, if only his life had not been so short. If only there was no bloody war. If only he had left home sooner. If only.

The pain in his leg was beginning to fade, becoming a dull pulse in his bones. His breathing was still rapid and his head was spinning. The shivering slowed but if it was from the sun or from the exhaustion, Cooke did not know. He closed his eyes. Sleep would be nice. He already missed Rossi though.

Voices brought him from the dark. They spoke to each other in concerned tones. A cold hand found its way to Cooke’s neck and he groaned with discomfort.

“Oh bloody hell, he’s alive.”

“Help me get him on the stretcher.”

Arms wound around his body, pulling it from the mud. Pain shot from his leg and he screamed, trying to get away. His eyes flew open, finding a clear sky, the sun just beginning to set.

“Shit! Look at his leg.”

“Poor bastard.”

The arms lay him on a stretcher, the pain was unbearable. He pleaded with them to stop, to let him die. Instead, they lifted the stretcher between them. The movement jostled his leg and he screamed again.

"Calm down, calm down. We're taking you to casualty clearing."

Cooke tried to take deep breaths but he just could not get enough air. He cried for Rossi to save him. His leg ached and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Once during a night patrol, Cooke had stepped in a round of barbed wire. The wire had hooked into the skin of his leg. It had taken all his strength no to cry out. The wound was not bad enough to need medical attention but it still hurt like hell.

Cooke had gripped tightly to Rossi's coat sleeve in an attempt to ignore the pain. He pretended it did not hurt but Rossi saw straight through him. He had wrapped Cooke up in his arms and whispered him stories until morning. It was a welcome distraction and Cooke was even able to fall asleep after a time.

Cooke wished Rossi was here now. The stretcher bearers slunk through the mud, trying their best not to shift him too much. He was freezing but he was too tired to shiver. All he could do was beg for them to let him sleep. God, why did this have to happen to him? What had he done wrong?

He could hear other voices now, calling out directions, “No, that train just left. You’ll have to get him on the next one. For now just take him down to the field hospital off of Leeds Avenue.”

The stretcher bearers dropped down into the tunnels, shifting Cooke’s leg again. He had no strength left to scream, all he could do was sob quietly from the pain. The trip to the field hospital seemed to last for hours. Engineers and infantrymen blocked off the tunnels, leaving little space for the stretcher. Once they got a look at his leg however, they mostly cleared a path. Whatever had happened must have been worse than Cooke thought but he was too scared to ask.

His chest heaved with the effort of breathing and his leg felt like it was ready to fall off. It burned as though every nerve were on fire. He just wanted it to end. He was so tired, death did not seem so bad anymore. He would miss Rossi but he doubted Rossi would miss him. That was okay. Even if none of it had been real, he was happy to have the memories that he did.

“Charlie?” a familiar voice asked, “Charlie! Oh fuck! Charlie what happened?”

Rossi was at his side, afraid to touch him. He had a bandage around his neck, even in the gloom of the electrical lights Cooke could see it was soaked with crimson. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Cooke could barely string his thoughts together, “Bloody, Hun. Fucking. Fucking shot me.” He had to breathe between almost every word, “Fucking hurts. Hurts so bad. Don’t leave.”

Rossi shook his head slightly, wincing, “I’m not going anywhere, yeah? I’m gonna stay right here.”

“Thank you,” Cooke reached for Rossi and the other took his hand in his own, locking their fingers together. The other hand went to rest on his forehead but he quickly pulled it off.

“Shite, you’re burning up. Where are the medics?”

During his time spent with Rossi, Cooke found he really enjoyed being taken care of, being looked after. Nobody had ever done that for him before. He would openly deny it when asked but secretly, he loved it. He loved that Rossi would always check on him when he could. He loved that Rossi would help get him extra food when he was hungry. He loved Rossi.

Cooke squeezed the other’s hand, silently pleading with him not to let go. Rossi ran a thumb over his knuckles.

“Don’t lie to me Jamie, how bad is it?”

Rossi looked to his leg, the colour seeping from his face, “It’s bad. It’s really fucking bad.”

Cooke sobbed, “I don’t want to die.” His voice was raspy and Rossi squeezed his hand tighter.

“You’re not going to die. You promised me you wouldn’t, remember?” Rossi reached out to brush the hair from his face, “I don’t take you as someone who would break his promise.”

“Just stay with me. As long as you can. Please.”

“Of course.”

Cooke lay on the cot, whimpering softly, while Rossi sat beside him. He never let go of Cooke’s hand. He whispered soft stories about home and how much Cooke was going to love it there. It could not have been more than an hour before the medics finally came but it felt like days. They looked him over, pricking his arm with morphine. Slowly, one of the medics cut away at the boot and ruined puttee on Cooke’s leg. When the wound was fully exposed, Rossi had to choke back a cry. Swallowing bile.

His leg was bent at an odd angle. At about the middle of his calf, was a mess of blood and sickly yellow infection. He could see the shattered bone of his leg sticking out of the wound. Red lines spread from it like a web. One particularly dark line running up his leg and under his pant leg. Blood poisoning.

Cooke was almost asleep at this point, “What? What is it?”

“You bloody idiot. You just got yourself a ticket home is what.” Rossi tried to smile.

One of the medics had taken a scalpel and was trying to decide the best way to begin cutting away at Cookes destroyed flesh. Rossi looked away, he did not want to see what they were about to do.

Cooke chuckled, the pain mostly faded, “Well you could come with me. You sliced your throat.”

“Oh, I wish I could. But it’s only a scratch.”

Then the medic buried the blade deep in the infected tissue and Cooke screamed. He tried to sit up, to get away. The other medic and Rossi had to help hold him down. The knife cut through so much skin, slicing out the sickness. But it was not enough. The infection ran too deep to simply be cut out. Instead, they poured alcohol over the wound while Cooke begged for them to stop. The leg was wrapped in a bandage and he was allowed to rest. It would be another hour till the next train could come to take him home.

Tears streamed down Cooke’s face, leaving tracks in the dirt on his skin, “Write me yeah? I’m gonna miss you.”

Darkness closed in around Cooke. The idea of sleep was so tempting. His breaths still came too fast and the pain from his leg had spread up into his chest.

“Of course, but only if you write me too,” Rossi wiped away his tears, letting his hand rest on the other’s cheek just a bit too long, “And when this is all over, I’m going to come get you, and we’re going to live in that old cottage my grandmother has, with the smallest dog we can find.”

“That sounds lovely.”

Then he was asleep. It was so warm in his sleep. He felt the phantom sensation of arms around his torso and legs. They lifted him onto what must have been another stretcher. The train must be here. He was going home.

Cooke could not hear the train, he could not feel it. All he could feel was a horrible pressure on his leg. It was starting to hurt. He tried to pull away. Voices spoke with concerned tones and a needle broke the skin of his arm. The pain faded back to pressure. It felt almost nice. He could not feel his fingers and his thoughts were fuzzy.

Now there were more hands, another stretcher, the gentle swaying of a boat. They were crossing the channel. He was vaguely aware of a new kind of pain in his leg. It went deeper than the bullet, twisting at his muscle and bone. He tried to sit up to see what was wrong but hands held him in place. Another needle in his arm. Now the darkness was pure. He felt nothing, heard nothing. It was peaceful. He could stay like this forever. No guns, no shells. Just endless sleep.

But he told Rossi he would write to him. He had to wake up. There were shells falling. The crater was filling with water. If he did not wake up he would surely drown. Cooke bolted awake, dull pain shooting through his left leg. Looking around, he was in a hospital ward. Lines of cots ran the length of the walls, men lay in various states of health around him. Light streamed in from large windows on either side of the long room. He was in England.

“Cooke! Was wondering when you would wake up. They said one of the nurses gave you a bit too much morphine.”

He knew that voice. But the boy beside him had bandage over his left eye. How had he gotten hurt?

“Malky, your eye. What happened?”

“Just a little friendly fire. One of the covering shells hit a few meters away from me and I got shrapnel in my face. Lost one eye but I’ve still got the other so I don’t mind,” he sounded almost cheery. To anyone who did not know Malky this might be unnerving but that’s just the way he was. Always the optimist. “And it looks like you lost a bit too.”

Cooke followed his gaze down to his legs. Leg. He only had one. But he could still feel the other, how could it be gone? Cooke swallowed bile and threw off the thin blankets. His left leg stopped just below his knee, wrapped in bandages. They must have taken it off on the train. Oh God. His eyes burned and he lay back down on the cot, refusing to look at the limb. Cooke wished he had Malky’s optimism right now.

“Looks like I have.”

He twisted his fingers in the bedsheet, trying to tear it. Everything hurt less and he was able to breathe properly but why did they have to take it? They could have just left it on. Or at least asked him if he wanted it off to which he would have said ‘No.’ What would Rossi think? Would he leave him? Would he begin to hate him just like everybody else?

“Do you know what happened to the others?” Malky asked.

“Hmm?”

“The others. I know you never leave Rossi’s side, but what about Jondalar and Butler? And that Singer kid?”

Oh God, Butler. Malky and Butler had been extremely close. How was he going to tell him? Cooke thought what it would be like if they were reversed, if Rossi was dead and Malky was the one to give him the news. But Rossi was not dead. Cooke had seen him, he was fine.

“I don't know about Jondalar, but Butler. He. He died, shot down. I’m sorry.”

The light faded from Malky’s remaining eye, “Oh.” He rolled over in his cot away from Cooke, pulling the blanket over his cheek. He must hate him. He must think it was Cooke’s fault his friend died.

Even though it must only be early morning, Cooke was still exhausted. A nurse came by to check on him, asking if he needed anything. All he wanted was something to eat. He was thirsty too but the last thing he wanted right now was water. The memory of the crater was still very fresh.

“Oh, and, what’s the date? Where am I?” he asked.

“Today’s the eleventh and you’re at Second London General darling.”

Cooke’s heart dropped at ‘darling’. Before now, only Rossi had ever called him that. He missed him so much already. He always missed him.

When the nurse returned, she had a small bowl of porridge on a little tray. Cooke almost teared up at the thought of real food. He sat up to eat.

“Once your wound has healed a little, we’ll get you fitted for a prosthetic.” She spoke in such a cheery tone, it was so incredibly out of place. Like he was not an amputee at all and was in fact sitting in some fancy restaurant waiting to be served.

Cooke looked away and nodded. He did not want to think about his leg right now. All he wanted was to eat his porridge and send a letter to Rossi. He promised he would. He promised Rossi so much. What if he could not keep them all? What would Rossi think of him?

“Do you have letter paper? And a pen?”

“Of course. Eat your porridge and I’ll be right back with them.” Her voice was condescending and Cooke hated it. She talked to him like he was only a child. He knew she was probably trained to do this but that only seemed to make him angrier.

He ate quickly, which only made him more angry since now he had no more food. Cooke was still hungry but he would be damned if he told anyone that.

When the nurse came back with paper and a pen, Cooke discovered he had no idea what to say. How was he supposed to tell Rossi what happened? How could he say it without making him worry. Or without making him think he was disfigured? He glanced at Malky who was sleeping peacefully now. Sleep sounded so nice.

After a few hours, he finally had a letter to send. It was short but there was not much to say. He knew the censors would see what he had written so he was very careful with what he said.

_Jamie,_

_I hope you are still alive and out of the way of the war. And I hope whatever happened to your neck was not as bad as it looked a few days ago._

_I am safe. They told me I am at 2nd London General. Malky is here too. He lost an eye from a shell blast but he is still eerily cheerful. I wish I knew how he did it. I am sure you have heard by now but Butler did not make it. I was the one to give the news to him. I think he hates me for being the one to tell him._

_They have real food here. It might not be your grandmother’s cooking that you are always on about but it is still better than stale biscuit and scummy tea._

_I have been trying to put it off but I know you will only pester me into telling you. They took off my leg. Just below the knee. One of the nurses told me that they will get me fitted for a prosthetic within the month. I do not know if I am okay or not. I can still feel my leg. I can still move it. But it is not there. At least it does not hurt as bad anymore._

_I miss you already. Charlie_

Cooke was barely able to finish it. His eyes burned with tears at the thought of Rossi still fighting on the front. He had to make it. He had to keep his promise. Rossi had to come home to him.

He sealed the letter in an envelope and wrote Rossi’s name and station on the back. Then he handed it to the first nurse he saw, asking it to be sent. Cooke watched her until she was out of sight, then he rolled over onto his side, facing away from Malky, and quickly fell asleep.

His dreams were gruesome, but he was used to it. Cooke rode out the nightmares like he always did, trying his best to keep silent. A few key things were different however. First, he was freezing. Second, Rossi was nowhere to be seen. At least until Cooke’s head was slammed under water.

He choked and sputtered, trying to lift up his head to breathe. Something was holding him there, a hand. It pressed his face into the sucking mud at the bottom of the crater. Cooke struggled to pry the fingers from his scalp but he was so weak. The torment did not end, he always found himself just on the edge of needing to breathe, but never having the strength to do it. He did his best to hold back his sobs. The noise of the water in his ears was deafening.

Finally, the hand released its grip and Cooke scrambled away, sucking in air. He turned to see who had been holding him under only to find Rossi staring back. The scar on his cheek was now yellow and rotten and he had a sickly sweet smile on his face.

“Jamie?” he asked.

Rossi did not respond. Instead he hit him hard in the face, knocking him back into the water. This time Cooke sucked in a breath of water, sitting up to find himself back in the hospital bed. He struggled for a moment to slow his breathing. It was dark outside now.

He reached for his leg, gingerly touching the end of the stump. It hurt. He pressed his fingers hard against it, feeling bone. Tears poured from his eyes and still he pressed harder. There was no goal in mind, he just wanted to feel it, to make sure it was really gone. He hated it. Cooke clawed his fingers into his leg until hot dark liquid seeped from the bandage. When he felt the blood he stopped, letting himself finally cry. Who would want him like this? He was broken.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter is going to be a while but please hold on, it's gonna be good I swear.


End file.
